Pale little vagrant soul,my body's guest and friend,where are you off to now,pale, cold, and naked,bereft the jokes we used to share?

Though Charlotte Corday might be more likely to ask after her corpulus vagulus blandulus, from the sound of it."

Nora,

What an honor! An accomplished classicist arriving in one's humble private Limbo.

Can it be the touchstone dying verse of Hadrian, who, deprived the sudden mercy of a Charlotte Corday and thus forced to endure a "natural death," so providing succeeding millennia of poets this moving challenge, has finally met its English match in your lovely effort?

For those who are interested in the original, preserved as a fragment mentioned by an author of Hadrian's time (and one of the few documentary evidences of his inner or "personal" life):

Till now I believe the version of 'animula vagula, blandula' I've found most affecting was a prose attempt, in French, that of Marguerite Yourcenar in the overwhelming final passage of her novel Memoirs of Hadrian. Here Hadrian, dying, has been brought to Baiae to be near the sea, where it is hoped his breathing will be improved; but the journey in the July heat has been an ordeal, and now the end is at hand. A small group of intimates surrounds him; gradually losing consciousness, he is however able to feel upon his fingers a friend's tender tears, reminding him through his pain that he "will have been loved in human wise." It is at this point in the magisterial fictional autobiography that M.Y. has Hadrian murmur, as if to himself, the bit that has become famous as 'animula vagula, blandula.' The English here is provided by M.Y. herself in collaboration with Grace Frick:

"Little soul, gentle and drifting, guest and companion of my body, now you will dwell below in pallid places, stark and bare; there you will abandon your play of yore. But one moment still, let us gaze together on these familiar shores, on these objects which doubtless we shall not see again... let us try, if we can, to enter death with open eyes."

Yourcenar was more than three decades at work on her Hadrian novel, beginning it as a young woman of twenty in 1924, destroying many early drafts as well as not a few later ones, abandoning it and returning and still returning as late as 1958 to add late reflections that are as much a part of the story of this very impersonal writer's work as Hadrian's lines are a part of his virtually unknown personal life--all we really have of it, in fact.

She notes, as of her first inklings that this Roman life might lead her into her own life as a writer, that "It did not take me very long to realize that I had embarked upon the life of a very great man. From that time on, still more respect for truth, closer attention, and, on my part, ever more silence."

In a wonderful essay called "Tone and Language in the Historical Novel," Yourcenar talks about the difficulty of fathoming intonations and inflections of speech across the darkness of lost centuries. Her remarks on building a "voice" for Hadrian are fascinating; they stress the enormous work--and risk--of invention and speculation that are every conscientious translator's burden. Documentary fragments remain to us, as she points out, but "Nothing, or virtually nothing, is left to us of those inflections, those quarter tones, those articulated half smiles which yet can change everything."

Therefore, she says, she chose, in her novel, "to make Hadrian use a dignified form of speech...[a] sustained style, half narrative, half meditative, but always essentially written..."

There have been many of the best English-speaking poets called to, and not a few probably also mysteriously chosen by, the Hadrian bit. The thing has a way of seeming to belong to everybody, young or old; we'll all be there one day.

John Donne, a compact version, 1611:

My little wandring sportful Soule,Ghest, and companion of my body.

Henry Vaughan, 1652:

My soul, my pleasant soul and witty,The ghest and consort of my body,Into what place now all aloneNaked and sad wilt thou be gone?No mirth, no wit, as heretofore,Nor Jests wilt thou afford me more.

Pope was talking about this little poem in public as early as the age of 23, in 1712, when he wrote a piece in The Spectator discussing "the famous Verses which the Emperor Adrian spoke on his death-bed," and offered a prose paraphrase. A year later he quoted the Hadrian lines in a letter to his friend Caryll, accompanied them with Prior's version, a translation of his own, and a "Christian" adaptation, and asked his friend which he thought the best. Not till eighteen years later did Pope publish the two poems he had done. Here is his translation:

And finally--three hundred years after Donne, two hundred after Keats, and a hundred and five after Byron--Ezra Pound, at the Hotel Eden in Sirmione, on the Lago di Garda (a site of "the original world of the gods," where, as Pound was delighted to know, Catullus had written his poetry), adding a nonce-word ("TENULLA") to the title, 1911:

"BLANDULA, TENULLA, VAGULA"

What hast thou, O my soul, with paradise?Will we not rather, when our freedom's won,Get us to some clear place where the sunLets drift in on us through the olive leavesA liquid glory? If at Sirmio,My soul, I meet thee, when this life's outrun...

And so on...rather hopefully on Pound's part of course, but that was still before the first Great War... down through the new Dark Ages to us, here and now. Where, Nora, it seems, from your marvelous version of Hadrian's poem, the breathing is better already.

And saying that, I am reminded of the brilliant compressed intensities a love of the classics like yours and Yourcenar's can kindle, warming the scene of the mind within the cold eternal night of the soul. Yourcenar left this astonishing account of her compositional attitude, during the writing of her novel -- which, she said, she completed in a state of "controlled delirium" that possessed her especially during a rail voyage across America:

"Closed inside my compartment as if in a cubicle of some Egyptian tomb, I worked late into the night between New York and Chicago; then all the next day, in the restaurant of a Chicago station where I awaited a train blocked by storms and snow; then again until dawn, alone in the observation car of a Santa Fe limited, surrounded by black spurs of the Colorado mountains, and by the eternal patterns of the stars. Thus were written at a single impulsion the passages on food, love, sleep, and the knowledge of men. I can hardly recall a day spent with more ardor, or more lucid nights."

The Bay of Baiae, with Apollo and Sibyl: Joseph Mallord William Turner, 1823 (Tate Gallery)

22 comments:

tc/btp
said...

Oh, my. Regrettably omitted by the imperfect memory of the Awful Elder in his Final Draft was the laudable Stevie Smith rendition of the Hadrian, done in 1966 and thus, by the theory that the passing of time yields sagesse, 55 years wiser than the Pound.

Here's the Stevie Smith, then:

Animula, vagula, blandula: The Emperor Hadrian to his soul

Little soul so sleek and smilingFlesh's guest and friend alsoWhere departing will you wanderGrowing paler now and languidAnd not joking as you used to?

Tom, Smith's sagesse does, indeed, sag. But thanks for recalling the translation history of Hadrian's words. You turned me on to Yourcenar years ago, and I find her work brilliant because she somehow enters those spaces between worlds where the words get so wobbly. I like how the different translations show not so much a facility for language as a commitment to apprehending the delicate traces of worldly departure.

As usual, I'm amazed and humbled by all you've managed to bring forth from what little I've brought you. Your invocation of Limbo is appropriate -- I feel a little like Dante, a callow mortal courteously welcomed "sì ch'io fui sesto tra cotanto senno." (And now lightning is going to strike me for even jokingly placing myself among those noble shades.)

Ha! I've been ignoring my little Dante project so long that I didn't even recognize that address at first. Now that I know you're reading, I'll have to get back to that.

From the dept. of coincidences: I just started reading "Dear Departed" (I found it hidden away on top of a dusty bookcase in my favorite store, and nearly pulled the shelf down on myself clambering after it). And speaking of Yourcenar, I love the image of her, alone with Hadrian, writing through the night in the rattling observation car. It's amazing how these little candles, lit on night trains passing through dark mountain ranges, manage to illuminate so much.

Have you all discovered David Malouf's poem SEVEN LAST WORDS OF THE EMPEROR HADRIAN? It is magnificent and beautiful and moving and is published in DM's collection of poems TYPEWRITER MUSIC (Univ of Queensland, 2007) as well as in Nicholas Jose THE LITERATURE OF AUSTRALIA, USA,2009.

I picked out a book from the shelf, IN DREAMS BEGIN RESPONSIBILITIES. The dedication included the phrase. My Latin is only a memory. Entering the net led me to this place. A very interesting history. I wonder it could be Hadrian was also being objective in his poem. Thinking here also how our 20th C educated mind pictures and contemplates ther soul.

Of course I will! Be patient for about a week, though, for I would like to reproduce part of your readers' interesting comments, as well as the Spanish translations of the poems. Muchas gracias, amigo.

Tom, I just uploaded the first part in Spanish. I have included Nora's translation into English (as well as my own in Spanish). You can read it here:

http://piratajenny.blogspot.com.es/2012/10/inmortalidad-1.html

I'll be posting the second part of your original post (influences of 'Animula' in English literature; I might also include some Spanish 'debtor texts') this weekend. I hope I've been a loyal translator of your words.

Like many others I too fell in love with Yourcenar's portrait of Hadrian, and consequently with her version of ANIMULA, VAGULA, BLANDULA, but, upon reflection, it strikes me odd that he would compose his "dying poem" in Latin rather than in the Greek he was so enamored of. Which makes me wonder if the poem might be an invention of one of his biographers or a translation by, say, Phlegon.